Camarada
by supercarXS
Summary: Max flees in a stolen truck, only to find that he's unintentionally stolen a dog, too.


**_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_** _Inspired by Max's companion in the Road Warrior (Mad Max 2) and Tom Hardy's apparent obsession with dogs :)_

 _Camarada: Spanish slang for "friend"_

 ** _[max rockatansky]_**

With blood still drying on my hands, I took stock of the spoils of war.

Had a solid truck beneath me. Sure, it had its clanks and rattles, but in this day and age you got worried if your car _didn't_ clank or rattle because it meant something had fallen off. It ran good. Clutch was smooth. Hard to find big trucks that didn't grind when you shifted. Even with a payload, the thing flew over the sand like it was nothing.

Six – yes, _six_ – cans of guzzoline sloshed around in the backseat. They were mostly full, and I also had whatever was in the tank, and if the fuel gauge was anything to go by I had at least two-thirds left in it. If I kept the pedal off the floor, all of it could keep me going for a good three or four days of constant motion. I was already on the run and I was probably dumping fuel far faster than I could afford to, but, hell, I'd killed for this truck.

I didn't even _want_ the damn thing!

Hadn't gone after the small band returning to the Bullet Farm because I wanted their big diesel flatbed. Didn't even know there was a stockpile of guzzoline in the back until I sent blood spattering over the cans. Had that been all they had to offer me, probably wouldn't've even gone after them. Unlucky blokes, because they had something else, something that I desperately wanted.

My Interceptor.

Twisted chassis, battered sheet metal, busted fluid lines everywhere, but aside from the wreck damage, it was mostly intact. The engine, that lovely V8 that had cost countless men their lives, was miraculously undamaged and hung from chains suspended from a stand hovering over the smashed hood of the car it came from. My prized machine had seen better days, sure, but I'd rebuilt it before, and from a condition far worse. The problem would be finding parts. As each day passed, that became more and more difficult, but I'd already made up my mind.

I would drive my Interceptor again if it was the last thing I did.

The flatbed had a rudimentary form of autocruise, activated by a button on the dash, so I locked the wheel straight and set the engine to run at a leisurely pace of 120 kilometers an hour. Satisfied that it wouldn't drift off course – the wheel alignment was spot-on – I relaxed and took my hands off the steering wheel. My palms stuck to the worn leather. Blood, lots of it.

Disgusted, I reached into the back in search of something to clean myself up with. I had three days' worth of water in an old jug, but I couldn't risk using that to wash with. Guzzoline could strip the paint off of steel, but I also didn't want anything flammable stained into my skin if I could avoid it. Frowning, I twisted around to get a better view of the backseat. Aside from the guzzoline cans wrapped tightly together with twine, there was a half-empty box of ammo knocking around on the floorboards and a pile of clothing stacked against the door. I whipped the garment off the top and shook it out. It was a woven shirt, much like mine, but with a gaping tear down the center of the back, stained at the edges with rusty blood. Well, it was already ruined. Wouldn't do me much good. I spat into my hands and rubbed them together. The metallic scent of blood hit my nose as I did my best to scrub it away on the ripped shirt.

 _Good as it's gonna get._ The wrinkles of my skin were still filled with rusty blood, but at least I could put my hands together without my flesh sticking to itself. I steadied the steering wheel with one hand and passed the dirtied shirt over it with the other, picking up the last traces of the blood. I wadded it up in my fist and went to toss it into the pile when a twitch of movement caught my eye.

I froze. Half-hoped it was my imagination, half-hoped it wasn't. I dropped the shirt and went for the shotgun strapped to my thigh, then remembered it was empty. There was a pistol stuffed into the back of my pants. I'd lifted it off one of the guys I'd snapped to get to my Interceptor, and it was full. I pushed my leather jacket out of the way and dragged the weapon out of my waistband, shoving the safety into the _off_ position and sending a bullet into the chamber.

Waited.

There! The clothing shifted again, and this time I knew it was real. I bared my crooked teeth and gripped the gun. There was someone in here, trying to burrow their way into the open.

A few shirts fell away, and I saw that it wasn't a person at all.

The stowaway was canine.

Last time I'd seen a dog, it was tiredly dragging itself behind the trader that held its ratty leash. It was old, near the end of its life just like everything else seemed to be. But this… this was a young dog. A damned _puppy._

"Oh, no," I murmured, pressing the side of my hand into my forehead. The dog's head snapped in my direction. It stared at me with huge golden eyes and tilted its head before digging itself the rest of the way out and falling rather ungracefully to the floor. Some part of me ached at the sight of such a young, beautiful thing, and _damn_ it I wanted to claim it as my companion. The other half reminded me of the last dog I'd had. He was shot point-blank with a crossbow while I watched, bleeding and helpless. The pup looked like him, too, which made me ache even more.

I groaned. Aside from a bullet to the gut, this was the _last_ thing I needed right now.

The rearview was clean. No telltale rooter-tails of dust to indicate a vehicle in pursuit. So, I deactivated the autocruise, kicked the clutch and the brake simultaneously, and brought the flatbed to a shuddering stop. The pup yelped as it thumped against the back of the seat, making me cringe.

Didn't need a dog. Taking care of a dog was a huge deal. Had a hard enough time scavenging enough food and water to keep me from dying, how the hell was I supposed to support an animal?! That was completely out of the question. I didn't have the time, I didn't have the resources, and I could not care for this puppy.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

I killed the engine. The pup was picking itself up from the ground, furiously shaking dust out of its mottled tricolor coat. It saw me, its tail shot straight up before swaying back and forth, blinking as it tossed its ears forward. Really _did_ look like my old dog. Not exactly, but close. Ears weren't as rigid, folded over, thicker coat, more white, but same caramel and gray fur patched over its back.

"C'mere," I growled, bending over to snatch it into my hands. I held it out, but some part of me was thinking how nice it would be to have some sort of companion other than the battered machines I stole –

The corner of my mouth twitched back in a snarl, and I turned away. Tucking the dog under one arm, I pushed my way out of the door into the sand, put a meter of distance between me and the truck, and dropped the dog at my feet. It scrambled with tiny paws to find its balance before looking up at me – _oh, God, stop it with those eyes –_ and waited.

I turned and walked back to the truck.

The pup followed.

"No." I picked it up again and moved out into the sand. I dropped it to the ground, thrust a finger back the way we came. "Go. Go! Get on!"

Pup didn't move.

"Leave!" I commanded, harsher this time. Pup sat back on its haunches. Gave me those damned eyes again.

I bent my knee and brought my foot down _hard_ into the sand, and as the impact vibrated along my metal knee brace I thought I should've used the other leg. Grit curved away from me and towards the dog, causing it to flinch and jump to its feet as I growled through my nose. Hunching its shoulders, the pup danced back a few steps, stopped, its head shifting to the side. _Why are you doing this?_ It seemed to ask.

And now I was personifying it. I violently gave my head a shake and mentally kicked myself as punishment.

"Stay," I barked. Of course, the pup didn't listen, and careful to stay out of the way of my feet it tailed me back to the truck. I paused with a foot on the floorboards and pushed my forehead into my open palm, scrubbing wearily at my skin. I couldn't deal with this, and now there was only one option left.

I knelt down, and the pup was on me with its paws against my knee brace and trying to scramble into the truck behind me. I pushed it away, watched its dejected expression as it thumped back down into the sand. Found a small rock under the tire. Fit nicely in my palm. I showed it to the dog, and then with a sweeping motion I tossed it some distance away and watched sand splash up in its wake. The dog's attention snapped towards where it landed and it loped a few strides in that direction, foolishly turning its back on me.

Took the handgun from where I'd dropped it on the driver's seat and slowly cocked it. The dog's ears twitched back at the sound, but it didn't turn around, even as I extended the weapon towards it and stroked the trigger.

 _It's gonna die anyway._

Then I aimed.

Couldn't pull the trigger.

I pursed my lips as my hand shook. Must've made a sound in my throat, because the dog spun back towards me, having lost interest in the discarded stone. I pushed the gun towards it, pointing the barrel right between those pretty golden eyes. My eyelids snapped closed as my face drew up in a scowl. Maybe if I didn't look at it…

The pup whined. I cracked an eye open. It was pressing itself against my ankles, gazing up at me with an expression that finally broke me. It was like the damned animal _knew_ I held its life in my hands. I lowered the gun.

"Don't do that," I rasped to the dog as I switched the safety back on and tucked the gun into my beaten leather jacket. I swept the animal into my arms and mounted into my truck, thinking to myself, _I've gotta give it a chance. Gives me trouble, put a bullet in it then._

Couldn't justify killing something that hadn't done me wrong.

Drove for hours, well into the darkness of night. I had a general idea of where I was headed and knew it would take me a good two days to get there. I had enough water, and enough food, and plenty of guzzoline, if I was smart and rationed it.

I also had a dog.

The pup rode shotgun in the passenger's seat to my left. I knew it was a female now. Sometimes she hauled herself up on the door panel to look out the window, most of the time she just sat there and waited until I stopped to relieve myself or to stretch my legs or get some food out of the pack I stashed in the back. She would run off when I opened the door, go play in the sand or do her business, and a couple of times she disappeared and I thought I'd lost her but once the truck started up she'd hear it and come bounding right back. She begged when I ate, though, and I begrudgingly tossed her the last bit of jerky and let her lick the dregs out of the expired can of refried beans.

Truck ran out of gas when the moon was straight above. Good time to stop as any. I let the lumbering machine coast to a halt before I jammed the parking brake down and dragged a can of guzzoline and a funnel to the fuel tank. The pup trotted off but didn't stray too far, and when she was done with whatever she was doing she loped right back up to me and sat dutifully at my feet as I filled up the tank.

I glared back the way I came. The wind was on my side; it took great handfuls of sand and threw them over my tracks. If the Bullet Farm boys had been following me, they'd have a hell of a time now. I hadn't seen them for hours, and even if they were just beyond the horizon I would still have a good head start. Always slept with one eye open and one ear cocked so I'd get it.

My tongue stuck to the back of my throat, oddly enticed by the sight of the clear liquid flowing into the fuel tank, though its smell was toxic. I finished emptying the can and tossed it onto the back of the flatbed before dragging my water jug from the backseat. The pup watched me, panting like crazy with her sides heaving in and out, nose dry. Realized she needed a drink, too. I unscrewed the lid and tipped the bottle into my mouth, only allowing myself a few long swallows though my body cried out for more, and then I knelt next to the dog and poured some into my cupped hand. She wasted no time in lapping it all up; not a drop fell into the dirt as she passed her tongue over every inch of my palm, gathering every last bit.

"Gotta save it," I said apologetically as I packed the water away. She watched as I dragged my bedroll into the sand and laid it out underneath the flatbed, but not before I'd gotten under the hood and removed the fuel pump relay and stuck it in my jacket's inner pocket. The truck wouldn't start without it, and I wanted to be sure it couldn't go anywhere without me.

Down under the flatbed, the wind wasn't so bad. I sorted myself out, tucking my arm up to support my neck while the other hand retrieved the handgun from my pocket. Made sure it was ready to go, laid on my back with it placed on my chest, forefinger poised on the trigger, closed my eyes.

Then I felt a small warm weight settle against my side, pushed right against my ribcage, and the pup fell asleep with her head resting on my stomach.

Dawn stained the desert turquoise. I took my sweet time packing up.

The dog trotted around my feet, followed me back and forth as I tossed stuff into the flatbed's backseat. The box of ammo on the floor didn't fit any gun I had, but I kept it anyway. If nothing else I could use it to trade later. The clothes were too small, so I tore up some bandages and kept the rest, again, for trade. Topped off the fuel tank with a half a can of guzzoline, then dug into my bag and shared salted crow meat with the pup. Gave us both a bit of water, then walked around to look at my Interceptor and decide on the day's course.

 _Broken front axles, dented driveshaft, bent exhaust lines, steering column collapsed, shifter snapped off…_ Mental checklist. I frowned. How the hell had the motor survived without a scratch? The supercharger had seen better days, but could be fixed. I just needed to get someplace that could help.

I grimaced, blew air through my nose. Didn't _want_ to go there. Been avoiding it. Debated if I really cared enough about the Interceptor to go back.

The pup barked.

A low, throaty sound, tailed by a vibrating growl. My hand fell to my weapon as I stood up on the back of the flatbed and glared at her, the first whispers of adrenaline lighting my bloodstream. She was poised with her little body drawn rigid, ears peaked forwards and tail straight out. I followed her gaze, and she yipped again.

Dust dirtied the horizon, kicked up by angry wheels, and I heard the distant roar of engines over the perpetual ringing in my ears.

"Come," I grunted as I leaped off the flatbed and dug my feet into the sand. The pup bounded at my heels as I snatched up my pack and hurled it into the cab, and I was about to start it when I remembered I had the fuel pump relay in my pocket. So I threw up the hood, slapped the relay into its home with an open palm, latched the hood shut again, and launched into the driver's seat. The dog was already perched in her seat, watching through the windshield as I cranked the truck's motor up, dumped the clutch, spun the tires through the sand and lurched into motion.

I drove, accelerator laid to the floor, dreading the destination but anxious to arrive all the same.

A day and a half later, the Citadel appeared on the horizon.

 **-END-**


End file.
